


The Taste of Victory

by Aramley



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-29
Updated: 2009-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-17 19:56:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aramley/pseuds/Aramley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the biting thing that gets to him. </p><p>Set after the Wimbledon 2008 Final trophy ceremony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taste of Victory

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://aramleys-words.livejournal.com/3809.html).

It's the biting thing that gets to him. Five years he's known the weight of that trophy in his hands, the familiarity of it cradled in his cupped palms, and yet he's only ever pressed chaste respectful kisses to the cool metal.

Rafa has no similar qualms. In the hectic flickering light of the flashing cameras Roger watches Rafa lift the trophy - his trophy, _Roger's_ trophy - fitting his teeth to one perfect volute. His hair falls in damp strands over his eyes, and he tosses them away with a quick movement, grinning, his teeth very white against the gold. Roger thinks about all the other trophies he's watched Rafa bite over the years of their rivalry - the trophies he's won, and the trophies he never has. All those matches and all those trophies, but he's never felt before the awful, visceral sense of _wrongness_ he feels now. He imagines Rafa putting his tongue against the smooth metal, and the bitter tang of jealousy floods his mouth. He _wants_ that trophy. It's _his_. This isn't how it works, Rafa with the cup and Roger with the silver plate a too-light weight in one hand, poor consolation for what he's had before. The hurt is basic and bone-deep and childish, and he wants to stamp his foot and tell everyone that this is _wrong_ , this isn't how it's _supposed to go_.

-

The feeling persists, the ugly ache of jealousy laced with the uncomfortable sensation of shame. Rafa is always so gracious. Always _seems_ so gracious, he tells himself, allowing for once that touch of nastiness. He glances over at Rafa, who is busily sifting through his kit bag. They're alone in the locker room, blessedly alone for the few minutes they have between the frenzy of the court and the frenzy of the media storm that's coming. Roger shrugs off his cardigan, feeling it foolish now - the white with the gold trim, all very well for a winner but kind of pathetic for a loser. He folds it carefully, setting it aside in a neat pile on the bench, and then stops. Suddenly it all seems such an effort, the act of getting undressed, showering, dressing again, and everything that comes after. He's so tired, his limbs heavy with unrewarded effort. He wants to sit down on this bench and let the loss bleed through his muscles, to let it wear itself out underneath his skin. He shuts his eyes, but can't shut out the image of Rafa's lips and teeth and tongue on the trophy.

He turns again to look at Rafa, who has his back to Roger. Rafa has taken off his training jacket, and the grass stains stand out vividly against the pristine white of his top. His shoulders and the backs of his arms are still sheened with sweat.

"Tell me -" Roger says, and then breaks off. He doesn't know how to ask the question that's on the tip of his tongue, the one thing he really desperately wants to know.

Rafa turns then. "Roger?" he says, a little warily. He looks concerned, and very young, and not at all like someone who just won a Grand Slam.

"Tell me -" Roger feels himself flush warm with embarrassment, but he can't stop now, "- what did it taste like?"

Rafa's always been oddly expressive, as easy to read off-court as he is focused and impassive on it, and Roger watches as Rafa's expression cycles through confusion to dawning comprehension. Roger feels stupid and childish. How can Rafa answer a question like that? He wishes he could take it back.

Rafa holds Roger's gaze for a long moment, clear and thoughtful and assessing. And then suddenly, without warning, he's crossing the space between them, closing down the feet and inches that divide them until they're face to face and closer still - and then Rafa reaches out and takes Roger's face between his two big hands, and slants his mouth across Roger's before Roger can protest or even register what is happening. He opens his mouth in shock and Rafa slips his tongue inside, warm and slick against Roger's, his nose all pressed up against Roger's face in a way that should be awkward and terrifying except somehow it isn't, not really. Roger's eyes are open, but Rafa's are shut, thick lashes curled dark against his cheeks, and Roger can see all the tiny freckles that dust the tan skin there, almost invisible except at this closeness. Rafa's mouth tastes vaguely of salt and the sweetness of glucose gel, but Roger imagines that layered underneath that he can taste the lingering metallic tang of the trophy, sharp and beautiful. Rafa sighs a little against Roger's mouth, pulling back just far enough to give a sharp encouraging nip to Roger's lower lip with his teeth, pushing his hands back brazenly through Roger's hair - and Roger brings one hand up to cup the line of Rafa's jaw, and chases the taste of victory into Rafa's mouth.


End file.
